The Coming Storm

Momozawa Ai left the building and descended the veranda steps. A faint, thin mist had risen from the damp gardens, veiling her face like a mourning shroud, clinging to her skin with a ghostly chill.

After a short walk, she arrived at a room and knocked softly on the paper-screen door.

“Come in.”

Momozawa Ai recognized Lady Murasaki’s voice, calm and cool as still water. She carefully slid the door open, taking care not to make the slightest discordant sound.

The room was filled with a swirling mist, a mixture of steam from the tea on the low table and smoke from an incense burner in the corner. The three figures seated on the tatami were blurry, indistinct silhouettes, but Momozawa Ai could distinguish them by their scents, a language more honest than words.

Lady Murasaki had the faint, clean, astringent fragrance of fine tea.

The Second Young Mistress was like the burning candle in the incense burner, her youthful energy too strong, too cloying, a heavy, sweet cloud of sandalwood.

Only one of them had no discernible scent, like the faint mist itself, a presence ready to dissipate at any moment.

“First Young Mistress, Second Young Mistress, my lady.”

Momozawa Ai greeted them in order of precedence as she passed, finally bowing respectfully to Lady Murasaki.

What scent do I have? The question suddenly, unpleasantly, popped into her mind.

“Sit,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Yes, my lady,” Momozawa Ai said, maintaining a proper distance and sinking to her knees in a perfect, formal posture, her back ramrod straight.

From this new, lower angle, the mist shifted, and her sense of smell seemed to fail her. She had to reorient herself, to distinguish their scents once more. The first she found was the rich sandalwood, dancing restlessly, impatiently, in the air.

“I thought it must be something important for you to call me here,” Kiyohime complained, her voice full of a childish petulance. “But as soon as I arrived, you sent me away to change, and now you won’t even say a word, just making me sit here like a fool.”

As usual, Lady Murasaki ignored her daughter, her eyes closed in serene, infuriating indifference.

Kiyohime had no choice but to turn to Momozawa Ai for sympathy. “Ai-obasan, what did Mama call me here for? She just told me to sit here and drink tea.”

A flicker of pity crossed Momozawa Ai’s eyes, but it was gone in an instant. “The Lady naturally has important matters to discuss,” she said smoothly. “It is just not yet time.”

“Mama…” Kiyohime whined, the sound grating.

Lady Murasaki’s eyes snapped open.

Though Momozawa Ai was closest to her, it was only in this moment that she could smell the faint, sharp fragrance of tea.

Lady Murasaki gave Kiyohime a cold, withering glance. “I have taught you for so long. Why do you still have none of the manners of a young lady? You’re like a feral child.”

The words were too harsh, a deep, piercing wound to Kiyohime’s fragile heart. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was terrified of her mother, a toxic mixture of worship and fear.

What kind of mother calls her own daughter a feral child? Kiyohime thought, her heart aching with a familiar pain.

“My lady, please don’t be upset,” Momozawa Ai said, her voice a soothing balm. “The Second Young Mistress is still young. She will grow up one day.”

“I’m afraid she won’t,” Lady Murasaki said, closing her eyes again, a final, dismissive judgment.

The mist before Momozawa Ai’s eyes seemed to suddenly contract, then expand, the air growing thick and heavy.

Fujiwara Yukina stood up, a sudden, sharp movement, as if shaking dust from her clothes. Her face was a mask of pure, cold disgust for the two cloying, suffocating scents in the room. “You are doing that despicable thing again!” she said to Lady Murasaki, her voice trembling with a quiet rage.

Kiyohime didn’t understand why Yukina was suddenly so angry. “Onee-chan, why are you so upset?”

“I am not your sister!” Yukina snapped, as if the word had burned her.

“Do not speak of such things in front of the child,” Lady Murasaki said, her eyes still closed, her voice dangerously calm.

“The child?” Yukina laughed coldly, a sound with no warmth in it. “Or is it that you do not wish to hear it?”

Momozawa Ai looked at Yukina, wanting to speak, to intervene, but she saw one standing, one sitting; one with eyes wide with a righteous fury, the other with her eyes closed in a profound, unshakable contempt. Kiyohime was caught in the middle, a confused, wounded pawn, still not understanding what they were fighting about.

The standoff lasted for a long, agonizing moment. Finally, Yukina slid open the paper-screen door and disappeared into the thick, white fog outside, swallowed by the morning.

“Ai-obasan, what happened?” Kiyohime whispered, her voice small.

Momozawa Ai stared at her. “Nothing happened between the three of us.”

“Then what were you arguing about?”

“Things from outside.”

Momozawa Ai looked at Lady Murasaki. Her elegant face was unreadable, as veiled and mysterious as the fog outside the window.

Today will be a bad day, Momozawa Ai thought.

…

Haruka calculated the time. Nearly ten minutes had passed.

He stood up, tidied his rumpled clothes, and then opened the bathroom door.

Murakami Suzune, seeing him emerge, gave a deep, graceful bow, the lily-shaped jade pendant on her hairpin tinkling softly, the only sound in the room.

Haruka looked at her properly. She wore a simple blue and white patterned kimono, her small feet in clean white tabi socks. She stood there demurely, her pretty face like a flower bud still wet with morning dew. His gaze finally settled on her knees. “How is the wound?”

“It is treated, Young Master.”

“Go and see a doctor later,” Haruka said. “I don’t want you to have any scars on your legs.”

“Thank you for your concern, Young Master.”

Suzune was about to bow again, but Haruka stopped her. “There’s no need to be so formal. Just be as you were when I first arrived. You only need to put on a show for them when others are around.”

“But you are the Young Master…” Suzune hesitated, her voice uncertain.

“Was I not the Young Master when I first arrived? I will be very unhappy if you speak like that,” Haruka said with a gentle smile. “We will be spending a lot of time together from now on.”

Suzune hesitated again, but this time, she did not bow. She simply lowered her head in a gesture of quiet respect. “I understand, Young Master.”

“Suzune,” Haruka said, “thank you for helping me, time and again. If you hadn’t called the butler, I’m afraid I would have been forced to wear that woman’s dress and been humiliated at the party.”

“It was my duty, Young Master,” Suzune said. “Besides, you are a person of good fortune. Even if I had not spoken, someone else would have helped you.”

“You helped me, and yet I caused your knees to be injured.”

A small, musical laugh escaped Suzune’s lips. She quickly covered her mouth with her sleeve, her head bowed. “I’m sorry, Young Master.”

Haruka smiled, unconcerned. “You should be sorry. Why would you cover such a beautiful laugh with your sleeve?” He gently pulled her hand away. Suzune looked at him, at a loss for words, her eyes wide.

“I prefer it when you are more open,” Haruka said, his smile genuine and disarming. “But why were you laughing just now?”

Suzune’s voice softened. “You have just returned to the Fujiwara household, Young Master, so you do not understand. You think I have suffered, but in fact, I could not be happier.”

“Why?”

“Thanks to you, Young Master, I am now an attendant. One of the highest-ranking ones, at that.” Suzune bowed her head again, and this time, it was with a sincere, profound gratitude. “For this, I must thank you for accepting me.”